


The Flame That Can't Catch

by sonna



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Did I mention angst, Good night, I promise it's not, Just lots of Angst, M/M, angsty vomiting is phrase that i never thought i'd ever produce, for someone with pretty severe emetophobia i wrote a decent amount of vomiting detail, i just reread the tags and it makes it sounds like this fic is all about vomiting and angst, i need to stop now, it's all angst with one paragraph of angsty vomiting, pre TRB, pre adam, ronan dealing with a niall lynch sized hole in his heart and gansey not knowing how to fix it, ronan drinking and swearing, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 08:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17763293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonna/pseuds/sonna
Summary: “I can’t find Ronan.” Declan’s voice comes in frustrated on the other end.  But Gansey knows that, just like his brother, Declan’s tone is covering something that’s much more vulnerable than he cares to admit.  Gansey exhales heavily out of his nostrils, pulls his glasses from his face, and pinches the bridge of his nose.  There’s a cramp of concern that tightens the bottom of his stomach but he pretends it’s from hunger. “And I know he’s not with you.”“He’s not,” Gansey confirms.“I’ve checked The Barns, the police station, the hospital, the roads, that weasel’s house, the fairgrounds. Everywhere.”Not everywhere, Gansey thinks. “I’ll find him.”“Alive, preferably.”“Preferably,”  Gansey pauses, then his voice turns stony, “You know I don’t have a choice in that matter.”“But you do.”And Declan hangs up.***or the one soon after niall's death where gansey tries his hardest to be ronan's lifejacket.





	The Flame That Can't Catch

It isn’t raining.  But it should be. There’s a weight to the air that only the humidity before rain can bring. It’s been like this for days now; a promise of precipitation with no follow-through.  Gansey has nearly every window open in Monmouth in hopes that what little cool the evening provides will leak into the retired warehouse and offer him some relief from the Henrietta heat.  An old, oscillating fan hums, ruffling Gansey’s hair from his forehead and putting whispers into the corners of the pages that are sprawled around him. By this time of night-turned-morning, Gansey’s glasses have slipped far down his nose and his shoulders are hunched around himself in what Ronan has titled his “Golem the Librarian” look.  The mint leaf on his tongue has long since lost its flavor and Gansey allows the fan to blow his journal to a random page. A newspaper clipping flutters out in front of him. He goes to reach for it when his phone rings. The cheery chorus of bings startles him into momentarily clutching his chest. Recovering, Gansey gropes about the papers surrounding him, patting them down until his hand finds the source of the infernal noise -- Helen is right; he really does need to change his ringtone. 

 

“Hello?” he sounds more hoarse than he anticipated.

 

“I can’t find Ronan.” Declan’s voice comes in frustrated on the other end.  But Gansey knows that, just like his brother, Declan’s tone is covering something that’s much more vulnerable than he cares to admit.  Gansey exhales heavily out of his nostrils, pulls his glasses from his face, and pinches the bridge of his nose. There’s a cramp of concern that tightens the bottom of his stomach but he pretends it’s from hunger. “And I know he’s not with you.”

 

“He’s not,” Gansey confirms. 

 

“I’ve checked The Barns, the police station, the hospital, the roads,  _ that weasel’s house _ , the fairgrounds. Everywhere.”

 

_ Not everywhere  _ Gansey thinks. “I’ll find him.”

 

“Alive, preferably.”

 

“Preferably,”  Gansey pauses, then his voice turns stony, “You know I don’t have a choice in that matter.”

 

“But you do.” 

 

And Declan hangs up. 

 

Putting his glasses back on, Gansey crawls gingerly out of his bed, avoiding as many papers as possible.  Toeing on an old pair of boat shoes -- the left shoe has a sizable hole along the seam and a careful eye could spot his pinky toe -- he picks his keys up off the floor from where they rested next to his school bag.  He doesn’t bother to change into proper clothes. The fireflies won’t judge his ancient linen drawstring pajama bottoms or his moth-eaten Vineyard Vines tee and Ronan has seen him in far worse. Gansey shuffles out of Monmouth and drags his fingertips along the dewy hood of the Pig, leaving his hand damp and cool. The car dips as he drops into the driver’s seat.  On command, it growls to life, making the sounds of night -- the astoundingly noisy cicadas included -- quiet in comparison. The heavy humidity carries the smell of gasoline to his nose much faster than he’s used to and he thinks, maybe, a mechanic should take a look again, just to make sure there isn’t a leak somewhere or that a part that he doesn’t know the name of has gone faulty. 

 

The trip to the cemetery is more familiar than Gansey would like it to be.  Luckily, it isn’t a long drive. But it’s full of old trees and meandering roads and feelings of perhaps that put a pain in his chest that’s reminiscent of getting the wind knocked out of him.  He tries not to overanalyze that feeling. But it clutches and makes breathing difficult. Gansey rolls down his window. It helps.

 

The cemetery is unlit.  Out of respect for whoever may take up residence there, Gansey turns his headlights down to only the low beams.  Gravel creaks under the wheels of The Pig as it slows, pulling next to a perfectly square patch of dirt where the grass hasn’t filled in yet.  In front of an unweathered headstone, is a quaking lump of a boy huddled into himself. The feeling in his stomach, that he had earlier cast off to be hunger, dissipates as relief hums through him like a sip of whiskey.  Gansey sighs heavy, leaning back on the headrest and closing his eyes before throwing the door open and heaving his body out of the car with a grunt. 

 

Gansey notes that the air is cooler than he remembers it being at Monmouth.  Maybe, he considers, it’s the breeze that was absent earlier. It picks up the sweat-curled ends of his hair and hisses through the in-need-of-mowing grass.  The air smells like rain and tastes a bit like it might begin to lightning. But the sky is clear of clouds. The moon, notably bright, makes it easy to pick his way amongst the headstones and avoid the flowers placed amongst graves by loved ones.  Gansey squats next to Ronan who has his legs hugged to his chest and his face pressed to his knees. There’s a mini graveyard of empty beer cans in a haphazard circle around him. Gansey finds himself sighing again. He lifts a hand to place on Ronan’s shivering back, it hovers there, then he decides otherwise, and it falls to his side. 

“Ronan?”  Gansey’s voice comes out quiet, young.  The same kind of voice you use as a kid when they’ve lost their friend in a corn maze. 

 

He waits for Ronan to move. Except he doesn’t.  Instead, he stills, despite the slight tremor to his shoulders.

 

Gansey tries to put a little more depth -- a little more authority, a little more age --  into his voice but he ends up sounding tired. So very tired. As if he hasn’t slept in days -- which he hasn’t.  “Ronan, come on. Let’s go.”

 

There’s a barely noticeable, slow shake of Ronan’s head against his knees. 

A heavy breath exhales through Gansey’s lips, “Ronan, please.” 

 

He looks to the sky, helpless, when Ronan remains quiet.   _ What time is it? _  There’s a kiss of color beginning to form on the horizon.  Gansey squints at it.  _ It’s too early _ , he thinks.  Perhaps the clouds are finally coming and the light of the moon is playing off of their infinite water droplets.  He is ready for the rain. Absolution from this heat, this humidity, is well overdue. 

 

Gansey doesn’t want to head in this direction but he isn’t sure how else to move Ronan; he’s afraid to touch him.  It seems very plausible that touching Ronan would cause him to turn immediately to dust. The fragility in the arc of his spine is something Gansey doesn’t want to mess with.  He speaks quiet, barely a breath, all soft southern edges, “Declan is looking for you.”

 

Ronan’s head snaps up, a flare of anger somehow sharpening the bleary, intoxicated look of his eyes. “I don’t give a  _ fuck  _ about him.”

 

“I know.  But you give a fuck about me.”

 

Ronan doesn’t deny this.  Instead, he rests his chin on his knees and looks out upon the cemetery, all scowl and raised hackles.  It’s now that Gansey can see the swollenness of his eyes. He knows better than to mention it. Especially when he notices tears beginning to make tracks down his cheeks.  Ronan inhales -- it’s more hiccup than breath -- closes his eyes, and shakes his head, like he’s scolding himself, like he should know better, like he shouldn’t be so foolish. 

 

“Ronan?”

 

“Don’t,” his voice cracks. 

 

There’s a low drum of thunder.  It’s felt more than heard. 

 

Gansey nods, as if agreeing -- with Ronan or with the thunder, he isn’t sure.  Standing, he shuffles around Ronan, gathering the empty cans into his arms. He deposits them in the trunk of the Pig; a problem for another time. Returning to him, Gansey offers his hand. 

 

“Come on, let me help you up.”

 

Ronan wipes his nose on the back of his arm and doesn’t look Gansey in the eyes when he grasps his forearm.  Gansey heaves him up. Once standing, Ronan doesn’t let go, he just stares at where they touch palm to forearm. The air roils with thunder.  He hiccups, stutters forward, and his forehead crashes into the junction between Gansey’s neck and shoulder. Gansey grunts, not expecting the weight of him but stands firm.  Pressing his cheek to the top of Ronan’s head, Gansey hooks his arms around his shuddering body, crushing him close. He tries not to be overwhelmed by the itch of Ronan’s buzzed hair on his cheek.  He tries not to be overwhelmed by Ronan’s smell of grass and dirt and cheap beer. He tries not to be overwhelmed by  _ Ronan _ .  But the impending storm intensifies everything.  Yet, he stands stock still, pressing his best friend as close to him as his arms will allow.  Ronan sniffles and Gansey is made acutely aware of the puddle that’s being left on his shirt He feels a sigh exhaled against his neck that sounds like the final punctuation mark at the end of a chapter. 

 

“Okay,” Ronan mumbles into the thin fabric and he breaks away from Gansey’s grip without looking at him.  The Pig’s passenger door lets out a squawk when Ronan flings it open. There is nothing graceful about the way that he flops into the front seat.

 

When Gansey starts up the car, Ronan’s head is already leaning against the window and he’s slumped into the door.  Concerned about his level of consciousness, as the Pig is pulling out of the cemetery, Gansey says, “Ronan?”

 

He’s offered a single, short grunt in response that, in any other circumstance, would have been swapped out for a heated “what?” had Ronan not been so void of energy.

 

“How much did you drink?” 

 

He lets the question hang for a beat before answering quiet and a little garbled. “Not enough.”

 

The drive back to Monmouth is silent except for the buzz of the Camaro's engine.  It  _ definitely  _ smells like gasoline and he  _ definitely _ needs for someone to look at it.  Gansey works his hands over the wheel.  Tonight would be a terrible night to break down.  Between his lack of sleep, the coming storm, a panicked Declan, and the hollowed out carcass of a boy next to him, he isn’t so sure he would be able to handle one more thing to worry about before sunrise.  At the very least, his homework is completed from earlier in the night and he finished a building in his Henrietta model before Declan had called. Every cell that Gansey possesses, and probably even the ones that he’s lost recently, are filled with a weight that doesn’t come from the heat or the insomnia or the workload of a private school or the colossally high expectations.  It comes from not being enough. He knows that he, or anything that he does, will never be enough to patch or mend or fix the Niall Lynch-sized hole that had blasted through Ronan like a cannonball through a canoe less than a month ago. His best friend is taking on water and he has no idea how to accept that he can’t stop it. A roll of thunder stutters out. Clouds begin to block out the moon, dropping the road into a grey-black. And Gansey feels defeated. 

 

“Gansey.” Ronan’s voice, urgent and rushed, startles him.

  
"Yeah?"

  
"Pull over."

  
"What?"

  
"Pull. Over."

 

Before Gansey even has the opportunity to come to a complete stop, Ronan already has his seat belt unbuckled, shoves open the passenger door, and retches on the pavement, his knuckles white on the door handle.  It takes what looks like his whole body to perform the act. He does it again and again. And again. And a couple more times after that. Even after his stomach is clear of the beer he had previously pumped into it, his body continues to dry heave a few times, as if there’s more than just alcohol polluting his system.  If Ronan wasn’t empty before, he was most definitely empty now. He spits on the pavement once. Twice. Then fishes a weeks-old bottle of fancy water off the floor in front of him -- that probably has some pretentious name scrawled on the front like  _ Bl _ _ ü _ or  _ Skyy _ or  _ Aqua Vitae _ \-- takes a swig, swishes it around his mouth, and spits that on the pavement too.  

 

Ronan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and mumbles, “Sorry.”  When Gansey doesn’t say anything, he looks up and sees him with a spectacular grimace that he misreads. Shame, thinly veiled by anger, hisses red hot within him. “Don’t worry, Dick.  I didn’t yarf on the Pig.”

 

Gansey’s brows knit together behind his glasses, “That’s not what I’m worried about.  And I would really rather you use the word  _ vomit _ or  _ evacuate _ instead of…” his hand flourishes as if to use the gesture as a fill-in for  _ yarf. _

 

“Then what  _ are _ you worried about, if you aren’t worried about me  _ puking on the fucking Pig _ ?”  Ronan feels himself begin to boil, the heat starting in his chest and spreading to his hands, his face, his ears. 

 

Answering with the truth feels like it might be the wrong choice but Gansey goes with it anyway.  “You.” He watches bugs flitting around in the beams of the car’s headlights. “I’m worried about you.” 

 

“Fuck off,” it’s hostile but all the heat has left Ronan’s tone, too tired to finish the fight he barely began.  His voice drops lower, so quiet and vulnerable, he winces at the sound of it. “I’m fine.”

 

Gansey inhales, slow, through his nose and then with a sighed exhale, “Are you?”

 

There was a part of Ronan that wishes he could get angry at him for the skeptical tone but there is nothing there to fuel the fire.  It would spark but there’s nothing for it to catch to hold a flame. He felt broken, wrong because of it. “Whatever.” He slams the door shut and it shakes the whole Camaro.  “Let’s go home.”

 

Ronan is grateful that Gansey doesn’t speak for the remainder of the trip or even, once they get back to Monmouth, for the remainder of the night.  As they’re pulling into the gravel lot of the factory, the rain starts to come, just mist at first but by the time they’re inside Monmouth, climbing the stairs to the second floor, there’s flash, a roll, and the skies open up and are barraging the roof with fast, fat raindrops. 

 

Soon after, when Ronan is in the shower, he hears Gansey on the phone with Declan.  The match lights but fizzles out with no kindling. 

 

Later, in bed, with his headphones thrumming a discernable ear-bleeding beat, Ronan opens himself up for the shame to come, to wash over him fully, to make him regret drinking, to make him regret crying in front of someone, to make him regret all the things that led up to this point.  But it doesn’t come. He thinks it’s partially because there’s no place for the shame to arrive at. There’s nothing. Only the feeling that he should feel shame. But even that’s a hollow thing and he wonders what it was like before. He wonders what it felt like to be  _ not empty _ . He wonders what it felt like to be whole because, if he’s being honest, he can’t remember. And it’s not fine. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is unbetaed. plz be kind. (with that being said, if there's anything ugly like grammar, tense changes, or just a funny fucked up sentence, etc., let me know and i'll fix it.)
> 
> i know i fizzled out at the end but it's getting late and i have to be up early for work and i just really wanted to post this. it's been sitting in my drafts since july? and it's time to release some sad into the world. and, yes, i know i worked on this instead of finishing the last 1k words of the next chapter of my pynch ballet fic that's been sitting for 3 months. i know. i hate me too. don't @ me. (or do. i love attention.)
> 
> if anyone knows of a comma-users anonymous, let me know bc i need help. on a similar note, does anyone have titling hacks? i'm an embarrassment to professional writers everywhere bc i still cannot title things to save my life. 
> 
> anyway. enough of my babbling. thank you for reading! kudos, comments, and constructive criticisms are more than welcome.
> 
> you can yell at me on tumblr as jacklighting.  
> or on trc discord server as murdersquash.


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